The Lost Boy (Patrick Hedstrom and Erica Falck, Book 7) Page 21

  If not for the child she was expecting, she would have walked into the sea. The ice had been gone for a long time now, and the summer was waning. Without the kicks inside of her stomach urging her on and giving her strength, she would have gone straight into the water from the narrow shore and headed through the dangerous currents towards the horizon until the sea took her. But the child gave her such joy. After each stern word, each blow, she would retreat to the life that was growing inside her. The baby was her lifeline. The memory of that evening when the child was conceived was something that she’d pushed into a far corner of her mind. That was no longer of any importance. The child was moving inside her womb, and it was hers.

  Having scrubbed the wooden floor with soap she laboriously hauled herself to her feet. All the rugs were hanging outside, getting an airing in the breeze. She ought to have given them a thorough wash in the spring. All winter long she had saved up ashes from the fireplace to use for scouring. But because of her pregnancy and the weariness she’d felt all spring and summer, she had settled for simply airing out the rugs. The child was due in November. Maybe she’d have the energy to wash the rugs around Christmastime, if all went well.

  Emelie stretched her aching back and threw open the front door. She walked around the side of the house and then allowed herself to pause and rest for a moment. This was where she had her pride and joy: the garden that she’d so carefully cultivated in this stark and desolate setting. Dill, parsley and chives were growing among the hollyhocks and bleeding hearts. The small garden was so heartbreakingly lovely in the midst of that grey and barren environ that she felt a pang every time she rounded the corner and caught sight of it. This little plot was hers, she alone had created it. Everything else on the island belonged to Karl and Julian. They were always in motion. When they weren’t working their shift at the lighthouse or sleeping, they were hammering, building, and sawing. They certainly weren’t lazy – she had to grant them that – but there was something frenetic about all that activity, the way they resolutely battled the wind and salt water that mercilessly broke down whatever they had just repaired.

  ‘The front door is open.’ Karl came around the corner, startling her so that she put her hand over her stomach. ‘How many times have I told you to close the door? Is that so hard to understand?’

  He looked angry. She knew that he’d taken the night shift at the lighthouse, and fatigue made his eyes look darker than usual. Frightened, she cowered before his gaze.

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought that …’

  ‘You thought! You stupid woman. You can’t even close the door. You do nothing but waste time instead of doing what you’re supposed to do. Julian and I slave away, day and night, while you squander your time on things like this.’ He took a step forward, and before she could react, he yanked a budding hollyhock out by the roots.

  ‘No, Karl! Don’t!’ She didn’t stop to think. All she could see was the stalk hanging from his clenched fist, as if he were slowly throttling it. She grabbed his arm and tried to take the flower away from him.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he snarled.

  His face was pale, and she saw that strange mixture of hatred and despair in his eyes as he raised his hand to strike her. It was as if he were hoping that the blow would relieve his own torment, but each time he was disappointed. If only she knew the reason for his agony and why she seemed to be the cause of it.

  This time instead of flinching she steeled herself and turned up her face to receive the slap that she knew would come. But his hand stopped in mid-air. She looked at him in surprise and then followed his gaze, which was directed out to sea, towards Fjällbacka.

  ‘Someone is on their way over here …’ she said.

  She had lived on this island for nearly a year now, and not once had they ever had a visitor. Aside from Karl and Julian, she hadn’t seen a living soul since the day she climbed into the boat that would bring her out to Gråskär.

  ‘It looks like the pastor.’ Karl slowly lowered the hand that was holding the hollyhock. He looked down at the flower, as if wondering how it had ended up in his grasp. Then he dropped it and nervously wiped his hands on his trouser legs.

  ‘Why would the pastor be coming here?’

  Emelie saw the fear in his eyes, and for a moment she couldn’t help enjoying the sight, but then she cursed herself for feeling that way. Karl was her husband, and the Bible said that a woman should honour her spouse. No matter what he did, no matter how he treated her, she had to obey that dictate.

  The boat carrying the pastor drew closer. When it was only a few hundred yards from the dock, Karl raised his hand in greeting and walked down to welcome their visitor. Emelie’s heart was pounding hard. Was it a good thing or a bad thing that the pastor had turned up so unexpectedly? She placed her hand protectively over her stomach. She too felt fear stirring inside.

  13

  Patrik was annoyed that he hadn’t managed to get much done the previous day. Even though it was Sunday, he’d gone to the station and written up a report about the missing boat, then checked to see whether it might have been advertised in Blocket or some other list of classified adverts. But he didn’t find anything. Later he had talked to Paula and asked her to go through the contents of Sverin’s briefcase. He’d taken a quick look inside, just enough to see that the laptop was there, along with a handful of documents. For once they’d had luck on their side in this investigation. The briefcase also contained a mobile phone.

  Eager to make progress today, he summoned Martin and headed out to the car for the drive to Göteborg.

  ‘Where do we start?’ asked Martin. He was in the passenger seat, as usual, although he’d done his best to try to persuade Patrik to let him drive.

  ‘At the social services office, I think. I talked to them on Friday and said we’d probably arrive around ten o’clock.’

  ‘And then the Refuge? Have you come up with any new questions for them?’

  ‘I’m hoping that we’ll find out a bit more about them from social services. Hopefully that might give us a lead.’

  ‘What about Sverin’s ex-girlfriend? Did he tell her anything?’ Martin kept his eyes on the road ahead, instinctively grabbing hold of the handle above the door whenever Patrik made a risky manoeuvre to overtake a container lorry.

  ‘No. We didn’t learn much from her. Except that she gave us the briefcase, of course. And that may turn out to be a productive discovery, but we won’t know until Paula has examined everything. We’re not going to mess with the laptop, since we have no idea how to crack the password. We’ll have to send it on to the tech guys.’

  ‘How did Nathalie take the news of Sverin’s death?’

  ‘She seemed very shaken. She came across as pretty fragile. Not an easy person to read.’

  ‘Isn’t this where we’re supposed to get off?’ Martin pointed to an exit, and Patrik swore as he turned the wheel so hard that the vehicle behind almost ran straight into them.

  ‘Bloody hell, Patrik,’ said Martin, his face pale.

  Ten minutes later they reached the social services building and were immediately ushered into the office of the director, who introduced himself as Sven Barkman. After the usual courtesies, they all sat down at a round conference table. Barkman was a short, slight man with a narrow face. The sharpness of his chin was further emphasized by a goatee. An image of Professor Calculus from The Adventures of Tintin suddenly sprang into Patrik’s mind; the likeness was striking. But the man’s voice didn’t match his appearance, which surprised both Martin and Patrik. Barkman had a deep, low voice that seemed to fill the room. It sounded as if he would be a good singer, and when Patrik looked around, this impression was confirmed. An array of photographs, certificates, and awards showed that Sven Barkman sang in a choir. Patrik didn’t recognize the name of the group, but clearly it was very successful.

  ‘I understand that you have some questions regarding the Refuge,’ said Sven, leaning forward. ‘May I ask why? We’re
very careful about keeping tabs on the groups that we liaise with on social welfare matters. So naturally we’re a bit concerned when we receive enquiries from the police. Besides, the Refuge is somewhat unusual in its approach, as you may be aware. And to be honest, we scrutinize their work rather more than we do the activities of other groups.’

  ‘Are you referring to the fact that both men and women work on the crisis cases?’

  ‘Yes. That’s not the norm. Leila Sundgren has really put her neck on the line with this experiment of hers, but we support her.’

  ‘There’s no reason for you to be alarmed. A former employee has been murdered, and we’re trying to find out more about his life. Since he worked for the Refuge up until four months ago, and considering what sort of work is involved, we’re taking a close look at the group. But we have no reason whatsoever to believe that there are any irregularities.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. So, let’s see now …’ Sven began leafing through the papers on the table in front of him as he quietly hummed. ‘Yes, well … hmm … oh, that’s right.’

  He continued to talk to himself as Patrik and Martin waited patiently.

  ‘Okay, now I have everything clear in my mind. I just needed to refresh my memory. We’ve worked with the Refuge for the past five years, or five and a half, to be exact. And I assume that, since this is a homicide investigation, I should be as precise as possible.’ He laughed. It was a low, chuckling laugh. ‘The number of cases that we’ve referred to them has increased sharply. Naturally, we were cautious at first, because we had to make sure that our collaboration with the group was functioning properly. Over the past year, four women have been referred to them via our office. All in all, I would estimate that the Refuge takes care of some thirty women per year.’ He looked up, apparently waiting for a follow-up question.

  ‘Can you talk us through the process. What sort of cases do you pass on to the Refuge? It seems rather an extreme measure to take, and I assume that you try other avenues first,’ said Martin.

  ‘Quite right. We work extensively with a wide range of these cases, and organizations like the Refuge are a last resort. There are times when we find out early on that there are problems in a particular family. But there are other cases when it takes us quite a while to spot the warning signals.’

  ‘What would be a typical case?’

  ‘It’s difficult to answer that question. I’ll give you an example. Say we get a call from the school about a child who seems to be in a bad way. Our next step is to follow up with various measures, including a visit to the family, to assess the situation. We would also check for any documentation that hasn’t been brought to our attention earlier.’

  ‘Documentation?’ asked Patrik.

  ‘Yes. There may have been several visits to the hospital, and when these are combined with the reports from the school, a pattern starts to emerge. We simply gather as much information as we can. At first we try to work with the family in its current situation, but that’s not always successful. As I said, helping the woman and any children to flee is a last resort. Unfortunately, it’s not as infrequent as we might wish.’

  ‘How does it work, in practice, when you have to turn to groups like the Refuge?’

  ‘We contact them directly rather than sending a written report,’ said Sven. ‘Leila Sundgren is our primary contact at the Refuge. We usually meet in person to provide background information and discuss the particular woman’s situation.’

  ‘Does the Refuge ever turn you down?’ asked Patrik, shifting position. The chair he was sitting on was extremely uncomfortable.

  ‘That has never happened. Because there are children at the shelter, they won’t accept women who are drug addicts or who have severe psychological problems. But we know that, so we don’t refer those types of cases to them. We find other shelters for those women. So no, the group has never refused to take any of the women we’ve referred.’

  ‘What happens when the group takes over?’ asked Patrik.

  ‘First we talk to the woman and set up a contact for her. Naturally, we handle this as discreetly as possible. The point is to make sure that they’re safe and that no one can find them.’

  ‘And later on? Do things ever get difficult for you at the social services office? I can imagine that some men get very angry when they discover that their wife and children have disappeared,’ said Martin.

  ‘Yes, but they don’t disappear for good. That would be illegal. We can’t hide a child from its father because he has a legal right to contest such actions. But we do receive our share of threats here at the office, and we regularly have to ring the police. So far, nothing serious has happened, touch wood.’

  ‘And what sort of follow-up do you do?’ Martin persisted.

  ‘The case remains with us, and we have ongoing contact with the relevant organization. Our objective is to arrive at a peaceful solution. In most instances, that’s not possible, but we do have some success stories.’

  ‘I’ve heard of cases where women have received help from these sorts of organization so that they can flee the country. Do you know anything about that? Do any of the women ever disappear?’ asked Patrik.

  Sven fidgeted a bit. ‘I know what you’re referring to. I read the newspapers too. There have been a few cases where women we worked with have disappeared, but we’ve no way of saying whether a particular group helped them to do that. We just have to assume that they found a way to leave on their own.’

  ‘Can we talk off the record for a moment?’

  ‘Off the record, I do think they receive help from certain organizations. But since we have no proof, there’s nothing we can do about it.’

  ‘Have any of the women that you’ve referred to the Refuge disappeared in this way?’

  For a moment Sven didn’t reply. Then he took a deep breath.

  ‘Yes.’

  Patrik decided to drop the subject. It would probably be more productive to ask staff at the Refuge directly. The social services office seemed to operate on the principle of: ‘the less we know, the better’. And he was doubtful that Sven Barkman could help further.

  ‘We’d like to thank you for your time. Unless there’s anything else you’d like to ask?’ Patrik glanced at Martin, who shook his head.

  On their way back to the car, Patrik felt a sinking sensation in his chest. He’d had no idea that so many women were forced to flee their homes – and the only statistic he’d been given was for cases involving the Refuge, so that was just the tip of the iceberg.

  Erica couldn’t stop thinking about Nathalie. She had been the same, and yet not. A paler copy of herself and terribly preoccupied in some way. The golden shimmer that had surrounded her in school was now gone, even though she was just as beautiful, just as unreachable. It was as if something inside of her had vanished. Erica had a hard time describing it. All she knew was that she felt sad after the encounter with Nathalie.

  She pushed the pram, stopping several times on Galärbacken.

  ‘Mamma tired?’ asked Maja as she happily perched on the running board of the twins’ pram. The boys had just dozed off, and with luck they’d sleep for a good hour.

  ‘Yes, Mamma’s tired,’ Erica told her daughter. She was breathing hard, and a wheezing sound could be heard in her chest.

  ‘Come on, Mamma,’ said Maja, giving a hop on the running board in order to help out.

  ‘Thanks, sweetie.’ Erica gathered her strength to push the pram the last part of the way past the fabric shop.

  After delivering Maja safely to the day-care centre, Erica was on her way home when an idea occurred to her. Her curiosity had been roused by the visit to Gråskär. The long shadow of the lighthouse and Nathalie’s expression when they talked about the island and its ghosts had set Erica wondering. Why not find out a bit more?

  Turning the pram around, she began walking towards the library. She had the whole day to kill and she might as well spend her time there while the twins were asleep. At least th
at felt more productive than sitting on the sofa and watching Oprah or Rachel Ray.

  ‘Hi, good to see you!’ May, the librarian, smiled as Erica parked the pram inside the front door and off to the side so it wouldn’t be in anyone’s way. Fortunately the library was totally deserted, and there didn’t seem to be much risk that she’d have to compete for space with anyone else.

  ‘And you brought those adorable twins,’ said May, leaning down to look inside the pram. ‘Are they as good as they are cute?’

  ‘Like little angels,’ Erica told her truthfully. Because she really couldn’t complain. The problems that she’d had when Maja was a baby had vanished, which was probably due to her own attitude this time around. When the boys woke in the night and started crying, she felt only gratitude instead of dread. Besides, they were seldom cranky, and they woke only once a night when they were hungry.

  ‘Well, you know your way around the library, so I’ll leave you to it. Give me a shout if you need any help. Are you working on a new book?’ said May, peering at her.

  To Erica’s great joy, the whole town was proud of her achievements and followed her publications with great interest.

  ‘No, I haven’t started on another one yet. I was thinking of doing some research for my own amusement.’

  ‘Oh, really? What’s the topic?’

  Erica laughed. The people who lived in Fjällbacka were not known for being shy. Their guiding principle seemed to be: if you don’t ask, you’ll never find out. She had no objections to that attitude. She herself was more inquisitive than most, as Patrik never failed to point out.